


Tiny Dragons & Where to Find Them

by tasteofshapes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Developing Friendships, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Dragons, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, M/M, Magical Creatures, Mythical Beings & Creatures, POV Draco Malfoy, Pet dragon, Pets, Unusual Pets, draco malfoy rambles, tiny dragon has a mind of its own, tiny dragon will not be tamed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23999380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tasteofshapes/pseuds/tasteofshapes
Summary: Draco finds the tiny dragon sleeping on the staircase leading up to the astronomy tower.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 90
Kudos: 780
Collections: The Ides of Drarry: A Drarry Game/Fest





	Tiny Dragons & Where to Find Them

**Author's Note:**

  * For [triggerlil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/gifts).



> This was written for the Ides of Drarry 2020, prompt: Drarry + first pet, maximum word count: 4972.
> 
> This was inspired by a tumblr discussion about [what happened to Harry's miniature dragon after the first task of the Triwizard Tournament](https://tasteofshapes.tumblr.com/post/616330628846288897/teaboot-generalgrievousdatingsim-sorry-for). This is my take on it, and was immensely fun to write.
> 
> Much love and thanks to Triggerlil for the beta, the cheerleading, the chats, and for suggesting this wonderful title.
> 
> Translation into русский язык available [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576300).

Draco finds the tiny dragon sleeping on the staircase leading up to the astronomy tower.

At first he thinks it’s a deformed lizard, and sends a couple of nasty thoughts towards Mrs. Norris’ way about cats who spend entirely too much of their days snitching on students, and too little time catching pests. Then the dragon huffs out a little puff of smoke in its sleep, and Draco abruptly stops and stares. He stoops down until he’s eye-level with the step, and watches as the tiny dragon rolls over, its small claws flexing, and carries on sleeping.

That’s how Potter stumbles over him an hour later: sprawled face down on the staircase, his head turned sideways and resting on the step next to the dragon, watching it sleep. Draco has timed his breathing to sync with the dragon’s, and a hot mist fills the air every time they exhale in tandem. 

“Malfoy?” Potter says from below him. 

Draco startles, and sits up. He had been so entranced by the dragon that he hadn’t heard Potter’s footsteps coming up the staircase, or noticed that the light slanting in through the tower windows had began to change. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Draco says, blinking up at Potter. 

The sun is setting in a brilliant blaze of red and gold in the window behind Potter, and Potter looks almost ethereal in this light, his brown skin shining like a fae’s as he rolls up an old scroll and stuffs it into his back pocket. Potter’s mouth pinches together in a frown, but even that feels softer in the dying light; comes across as chiding rather than annoyance.

It feels like Draco’s waking up from a dream, and maybe that’s why his voice comes out soft and sleepy; why he forgets to be unpleasant to Potter. “What is it?”

“That’s my dragon,” Potter says, nodding at it. “I’ve been looking for it for hours.”

“It’s yours?” Draco says, and a flash of jealousy passes swiftly over his face. He turns from Potter to glance back at the dragon, small and beautiful and curled into itself against the cold stone. “Are you sure? I mean, it might not even be yours, this one might have wandered in from the Forest; have you examined the markings carefully? Look, it doesn’t even have a collar!”

Potter’s frown softens even further until he just looks puzzled, but he obediently bends forward to give a dragon a cursory once-over. “Yeap,” he says, “it’s definitely mine.”

Draco gives him a stern look. “Well, then you’re a very irresponsible pet owner. What are you doing, letting it roam all around the castle like that? What if someone else had found it, and decided to keep it? Or even worse, decided to turn it into a potion ingredient?”

The idea of the tiny dragon getting chopped up into parts horrifies Draco, and he inadvertently locks eyes with Potter as they exchange a grimace, the both of them pulling a face. There’s a moment of stillness while they both process the fact that they just had an unexpected moment of camaraderie. Then Draco makes another face, sticking out his tongue at the same time that Potter does, and they lock eyes again.

Potter looks like he wants to laugh. Draco schools his face into a stony expression, crosses his arms disapprovingly and tsks at him. 

“I didn’t _let_ _it_ ,” Potter’s saying. “It keeps wandering off to explore, and it’s not like I’m going to keep it chained to my bedpost, am I?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Well, why haven’t you put a magical collar on it yet? That way you’ll know where it is all the time, so you don’t have to hunt for it. Mrs. Norris will know that it’s a student’s pet and not to be harmed, and the collar will let it know to come to you when you want it. You could have gotten one at the pet store at Hogsmeade.”

There’s a long silence. “Oh,” Potter says finally. “I… wasn’t aware of that.”

“Of course you weren’t,” Draco says, and tries to look disdainfully down his nose at Potter. He fails, because Potter’s standing up while he’s sitting down, and he goes a bit cross-eyed in his attempt at trying to glare up at Potter. Potter’s lips twitch, as if he’s desperately trying to hold back a laugh. There’s a general air of amusement about Potter, and he looks at Draco consideringly, as if he’s trying to make up his mind about something.

“Thanks,” Potter says suddenly, and Draco blinks at the unexpected change. 

“Oh. You’re welcome. How did you come by the dragon anyway?”

“It’s from the first task of the Triwizard Tournament,” Potter says as he takes a seat on the step below Draco. “It’s supposed to be a Hungarian Horntail.” 

“Does it have a name?”

Potter hesitates. “Erm, no,” he says at last. “No name ever felt right, and then after a while, everyone in the dorms got used to calling it ‘dragon’ and the name stuck.”

“That’s not surprising. Dragons have their own names, you know. You’ll know what to call it when it tells you,” Draco says. They both look at the little dragon, who chooses that moment to wake up.

It rolls over and gets up, arching its back like a cat as it stretches, and opens its mouth in a giant yawn to reveal rows and rows of sharp, tiny teeth. Then it spots Potter, and trots over happily, unfolding its wings as it does so. Draco watches with undisguised envy as it nuzzles Potter’s knee—if it could be called nuzzling—butting its head against Potter’s jeans; yellow eyes fixed firmly on Potter.

Potter chuckles and opens his hand, lets the Horntail saunter onto his palm, and holds it up so he can glare at it. “You’ve been a very bad dragon. This is the third time you’ve made me hunt all over the castle for you. What if Mrs. Norris had found you first? I know you’ve got teeth and wings, but Mrs. Norris’s fast, and she would have made a meal out of you.”

Draco has to fight not to laugh at the sight of Potter scolding a tiny, unrepentant dragon, who just shakes its head haughtily, and snorts out a puff of smoke at him in reply.

“No, it’s going to be the collar for you,” Potter says sternly, and the dragon lets out a tiny roar of disagreement. It storms around in a tight circle on Potter’s palm, its spiked tail waving around agitatedly, blowing miniature fire out of its snout every few seconds at Potter. Potter shakes his head at it, but he looks amused.

Draco’s smiling, and he doesn’t realise that he’s leaned forward to watch the spectacle play out, his elbows propped up on his knees, until Potter turns to look at him and he abruptly realises that their faces are only inches apart.

“Oh,” he breathes, slightly dazzled, because how has he not noticed how very green Potter’s eyes are? From this distance, he can see the tiny flecks of gold in Potter’s iries; can count every individual eyelash.

“Oh,” Potter echoes him softly, looking equally dazed. 

They look at each other for a long, unbroken moment that seems to stretch on forever. Strangely, an image of Potter on his broom flashes through Draco’s mind, unbidden. Potter’s laughing, the wind blowing his hair back, his face happy and sun-warmed. It’s so vivid that Draco can almost smell the fresh breeze; feel the wood of the broomstick under his hands, and he squeezes his eyes closed for a moment, trying to regain his footing in the world. 

When he opens his eyes, it’s to see Potter with a vague look on his face. Draco watches as Potter’s gaze drifts down to Draco’s mouth, to where Draco’s biting on his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth. Potter’s eyes dilute, and his lips part soundlessly as he breathes in deeply. There’s the faintest whisper of Potter’s breath on his cheek, and for a second, Draco thinks Potter’s about to kiss him. Which is when the dragon suddenly turns its head and sneezes.

In an instant, Potter’s gaze sharpens, and his face loses that slack, dreamy look. Almost immediately they both pull back at the same time, their gazes averted. The dragon’s looking between them, and if dragons had facial expressions Draco would have sworn that this one was smirking.

A flush creeps up the side of Draco’s neck as he side-eyes the dragon, wondering if the rumours about them and their enchantments are true, even when they’re in miniature. Potter spots him looking at it, and after a moment’s hesitation, offers Draco the dragon on his palm. Draco extends a hand right next to Potter’s, and the dragon looks up at him intently before it stalks over onto his hand. 

It makes one large circle around Draco’s palm, sniffing suspiciously at Draco’s fingers as they curl protectively over the dragon. The Horntail doesn’t like that, and demonstrates its displeasure by suddenly darting forward and taking a chunk out of Draco’s little finger.

“Ow, you little bugger!” Draco exclaims, but he doesn’t drop it, and his fingers flatten out, away from the Horntail’s sharp little teeth. 

Beside him, Potter laughs. “Yeah, that happened to me the first time as well,” he says, chuckling. “Sorry, should’ve warned you.” 

“Yes, you should have,” Draco tells Potter reprovingly, but he’s watching the Horntail flap its wings and lift off from his hand. The dragon makes a quick infinity loop around their heads, soaring on its powerful, tiny wings, and then lands on Draco’s right shoulder, its little claws digging into the fabric of his robes for purchase.

“Oh,” Draco says, delighted, and tries to look at the dragon out of the corner of his eye without turning his head. He can feel the Horntail nuzzling at his ears; feel the scrape of its scales against his ear lobe. 

Unexpectedly, Potter says hesitatingly, “Do you want to bring it with you for dinner?”

“What? I mean, are you sure?”

“It seems to like you,” Potter says quietly. “And I know you won’t hurt it.”

“Oh, well. Alright then,” Draco says, trying to play it cool. He knows he hasn’t succeeded because there’s a wide grin on his face, and Potter’s smiling back at him. On his shoulder, the dragon’s begun nibbling on his ear. 

  


* * *

  


Draco spends all of dinner admiring the dragon as it paces up and down the dining table and accepting the envious compliments that come his way when the other Slytherins find out that the dragon only responds to him.

“Where did you get it,” Theodore asks for the third time. 

The dragon perches at the edge of Draco’s plate, greedily gobbling up the small chunks of steak that he cuts for it. It eyes Theodore suspiciously, one claw placed protectively over its food as it bares its teeth. 

“From a... friend,” Draco says evasively, smiling secretively down at the Horntail. 

Unhappy at all the faces looking at its food, it leaps off his plate and takes to the air, making a protective circle that spirals wider and wider until it’s circling Draco. It lets out a tiny roar of displeasure at Pansy and Blaise, who sit on either side of Draco, and they promptly shift further down the table and away from the dragon that’s now snapping at thin air.

“Hey, none of that now,” Draco says scoldingly, and holds up two fingers for the Horntail to land. It does so to a murmur of _oohs_ that ripple down the table, wings outstretched and flared, and glares around at his housemates in as menacing a manner as a five inch dragon can pull off.

“You little terror,” Draco says to it affectionately as he brings it back to his plate. The Horntail steps off his fingers and back onto porcelain, waving its spiked tail around grumpily, and goes back to attacking its cube of steak.

“Didn’t Potter fight a dragon like that?” Blaise says neutrally. 

Draco doesn’t react at all. “Did he?” he says blandly, and eats his dinner like his heart isn’t suddenly racing. “I really wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, come off it, you made badges announcing ‘ _Potter stinks_ ’ that year! Of course you remember; _we all do_!” Pansy exclaims, at the same time that Blaise drawls, “Yes, yes he did. The first task of the Triwizard Tournament, I believe.”

The multitude of Syltherin faces looking at Draco and his dragon suddenly turn suspicious, and then as one, the Slytherins turn to look over at the Gryffindor table. 

“Oh my god, you lot would have made terrible spies,” Draco says flatly. Everyone ignores him.

Potter looks up when he feels the weight of more than one curious gaze studying him, and stares defiantly back until one by one, the Slytherins look away. Draco is the only one that still looks at him, curious as to what Potter would do, and to his surprise, when Potter locks eyes with him, he gives Draco a quick nod of acknowledgement before he turns away when Hermione tugs at his arm. 

Draco turns his attention back to his housemates just as Theodore says decisively, “It can’t be Potter’s. He hates Draco.”

Draco scowls at Theodore, but it’s hard to be angry when he’s got Potter’s pet _literally_ eating out of his hands. Next to him, Draco can see Blaise giving Theodore a disdainful look as he sweeps his hair back in one haughty gesture, but mercifully, Blaise doesn’t say anything. 

At the end of dinner, Draco hangs back until most of the Slytherins leave. Blaise gives him a wordless smirk and a knowing look before he departs with the rest of the boys, which Draco pretends not to see. He can’t help the flush that rises to his cheeks though, and sends a silent prayer of thanks that his end of the table has pretty much emptied out. Draco dawdles over his desert until his ice cream is nothing but a melted mess, and sneaks peeks over at where Potter has also hung back. There’s only Dean left at the Gryffindor table now, taking his time over the pudding, and Draco doesn’t miss how Potter keeps furtively glancing over at Draco even as he pushes his fork around an empty plate.

There’s a moment when Draco thinks they’ve been caught, when it seems like Dean’s turning around to see what Potter’s looking at, but then Dean carries on and swings his other leg over the bench and gets up. They both watch as Dean exits through the double doors of the Great Hall, and then finally, _finally_ , Draco gets up and heads over to Potter.

Potter watches him approach with the Horntail flying overhead, his face carefully blank. The dragon lands right next to where Potter’s still clutching his fork, and headbutts his knuckles in a greeting before gnawing on it.

“Hi,” Potter says to it, and then to Draco, “how was dinner?”

“Dinner was fine,” Draco says, swinging one leg over the bench. “What was not was your dragon being an absolute terror. Honestly Potter, it’s got no manners whatsoever! I think it nearly took Nott’s finger off at one point.”

“Well, did he deserve it?” Potter asks, a slight grin on his face. 

And that’s not really the point, but Draco shrugs, says, “On the whole? Probably. There’s just something unlikable about his face.”

Potter gives him an amused look. “Isn’t he your friend?”

“He is, yes,” Draco says, watching the dragon flop to the table in an apparent food coma, its lizard eyes half-closed in contentment. “But he always looks as if he’s on the edge of murder. It makes one distinctly uncomfortable to be alone in a room with him. I never quite know if this will be the moment my short life tragically ends with Nott plunging a knife into my back.”

Potter snorts, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Why would Nott kill you?”

“Oh, a multitude of reasons.” Draco waves a lazy hand, still watching the dragon, and pretending like he doesn’t notice how Potter’s still looking at him, his gaze hot and intense. He starts ticking them off his fingers. “My good looks, my natural charm, my impeccable fashion sense, my gorgeous hair—Nott would kill to have this shade of blond, I’ll have you know, and he’s been hankering to know how I get my hair to be this soft, and won’t believe that it’s natural. Well alright, part of it’s the leave-in conditioner too. Mother gets it delivered in from France. But don’t tell Nott that. The not-knowing is _killing_ him.”

Potter starts laughing then, and the remaining students in the Great Hall turn to watch. It makes Draco feel inordinately proud that _he_ is the cause of Potter’s mirth for once, although the attention also makes him self-conscious. 

Then Potter says, “Your secret’s safe with me,” his eyes twinkling in amusement, and Draco thinks, everyone else be damned. Potter must notice the stares, however, because he abruptly says, “want to get out of here?”

“Alright,” Draco agrees. 

Potter’s already rising from the bench, and reaches out a hand to the dragon. It eyes them both balefully for a long second and doesn’t move from where it’s sprawled out across the table. Potter starts making a clicking noise with his tongue in an attempt to coax it over, which it promptly ignores.

Then Potter starts going, “psspsspsspss,” which Draco can’t help but laugh at, and which, incredibly, seems to do the trick. The dragon gets up and shakes its wings out grumpily before climbing onto Potter’s palm, where Potter transfers it to his shoulder.

Potter has kept his hair long and shaggy this year, and it curls in at the nape of his neck. The Horntail plays with it; snapping at stray locks and tugging at it with its snout until Potter winces. It’s entertaining to see how Potter lets his dragon get away with the most ridiculous behaviour, and Draco’s so caught up in watching this tiny lizard terrorize Potter that he doesn’t even notice the stares and whispers of the other students as they make their way out of the Great Hall and down a corridor.

Then Potter comes to a halt in front of a blank wall, and he looks up to realise that Potter’s walked him all the way down to the dungeons. Belatedly, Draco realises that he’s cold, and that he’s been cold for a while now, and that they’re also right in front of the Slytherin rooms.

The question of _how_ Potter knows that this is their secret entrance is right there on the tip of his tongue, but then Potter cleverly distracts him by gently untangling the dragon from his hair, and holds it out. It doesn’t like being separated from its snoutful of hair, and makes its displeasure known by roaring at Potter.

“You really need to get a collar on that thing,” Draco says, although he likes the way it’s so obviously giving Potter the lip in dragon-speak. A dragon after his own heart, it is, and he can’t help giving it a fond look, which it returns sulkily, its eyes narrowed.

Potter does an awkward shuffle on the spot, shifting his weight from one leg to the other before he finally says, “Fancy going down to Hogsmead with me tomorrow to pick one out?”

“Tomorrow?” Draco repeats, mentally scrolling through his very empty social calendar. “Well Potter, it’s your lucky day. I just so happen to have an open slot in my busy schedule for you. Shall we meet by the Great Hall after breakfast? Say, eleven?”

“Perfect,” Potter says, and smiles down at where the Horntail’s trying to bite his fingers. Privately, Draco wonders whether Potter’s a masochist. Potter had one of the greatest dark wizards of their time as his own personal nemesis, is constantly getting himself into situations where he ends up injured, and on top of that, has now procured himself a pet whose primary function appears to be the maiming of his fingers.

 _Definite masochist_ , Draco decides, nodding to himself. He gets an odd look from Potter, but Potter’s smiling, so Draco doesn’t think anything of it. He _knows_ he’s right, Potter’s a pain freak.

“Say good night.” Potter says, lifting the dragon up, and Draco, too caught up in his thoughts, obediently says, “good night,” smiling goofily down at the dragon until reality catches up to him. Then he freezes, horrified. 

There’s a long pause. “Erm, I was talking to the dragon actually,” Potter says, very clearly trying not to laugh, “but erm, yeah. Good night, Draco.”

And maybe it’s because he’s grateful for the way Potter skips over that mistake instead of harping on it, or maybe it’s because of the way Potter’s grinning at him, but the words “Night, Harry,” roll off Draco’s tongue as easily as if they’ve been on a first name basis all these years. 

“See you tomorrow,” Harry says, and it sounds like a promise. 

  


* * *

  


The next day dawns bright and cold. Draco is ten minutes late—“ _Fashionably_ late,” he sniffs, eyeing Harry’s outfit as they set off, before muttering, “not that you’d know anything about it.”

“Hey!” Harry says, but it’s without heat. He’s distracted by the Horntail, who started off riding on his shoulder, and has progressed to trying to climb up the side of Harry’s head, its claws gripping Harry’s hair as it tries to tug itself up.

The light slanting through the trees is warm and gentle on their faces, and Harry’s trying to argue about the chances of the Falmouth Falcons, the uninformed fool, and wincing because one of the Horntail’s claws have gotten tangled in that shaggy mess he calls his hair again. It’s roaring its tiny roar of frustration, but Harry doesn’t stop; just carries on arguing and walking while he fumbles blindly trying to get it out, and gets badly nipped for his effort.

“–and the seeker has the best record— _ouch_!—in the league, he’s caught the Snitch— _ow_!—over twenty-five— _ow_! You little devil!” The last part is directed at the Horntail, who has wriggled so much that it’s somehow managed to firmly ensnare half of its body into Harry’s rats’ nest of hair. Trapped and immobile, it has its teeth bared and is watching Harry’s fingers balefully, snapping everytime they come near. 

Draco’s laughing so hard he’s wheezing, and they have to stop so that he can get his breath back, and so that Harry can slowly untangle the dragon. Draco’s absolutely no help at all in that regard; he just leans against a tree and snickers every time Harry accidentally pulls on his own hair. At the end of it, Harry’s hands are all scratched up, and his eyes are watering from the pain of the dragon’s sharp teeth. He thrusts the dragon in Draco’s direction with an unceremonious, “here, _you_ take it!”

“Gladly,” Draco says, smirking, and lets the dragon scramble onto his shoulder, where it’s content to stay as they resume their walk.

Harry’s nursing a cut on the fleshy part of his palm where the dragon’s sharp teeth have sliced through skin. Draco rolls his eyes, slipping his wand out of his robes as he reaches over to take Harry’s hand and casts a basic healing spell. The bleeding stops immediately, the edges of the wound knitting together, Harry’s skin painted a soft golden under the glow of the spell. Harry’s hand is warm in his, and he can feel Harry’s pulse rabbiting under where his thumb rests gently on Harry's wrist.

“You’re hopeless,” Draco says, shaking his head as they continue on. “What would you have done without me? Just let the wound fester, and wait until you die of blood poisoning? So this means that I’ve saved your life, right ? Do you owe me your firstborn now? Because if you do, that would actually be helpful. Takes a lot of the pressure off my shoulders to produce the next Malfoy heir, you know? Although I’m not sure how Mother might take to it once she learns that the latest Malfoy came from the loins of a Potter. Though I’d say she’d hardly have cause for complaint, not after that entire debacle with Father. Oh well, I’m sure we can work it all out.”

“Wow,” Harry says, but he’s smiling. “Has anyone told you that you’re slightly manic?” 

“No,” Draco says, then pauses when an epiphany strikes him. “Oh, oh, did you not heal yourself because you’re into hurting yourself? Do you _take pleasure in suffering_?” He looks at Harry, who looks completely taken aback, and nods to himself. “ _You are_ , aren’t you? Do the Twiddledees know? What am I talking about, of course they must know. Wait, is it _sexual_?”

Harry scowls at him, but Draco can tell that he’s desperately trying to hold back a laugh. “I am _not_ into hurting myself! Sexually or otherwise! And it’s _Ron_ and _Hermione_ ,” he says pointedly, which Draco waves away with a dismissive hand. 

Of course Harry would deny it, no one wants to admit that they have unusual sexual kinks when the entire Wizarding World has an idealised version of who they should be. They stroll into Hogsmeade, still arguing over whether Harry enjoys pain, sexually or not. 

“It’s fine if you do, Harry,” Draco says reassuringly, “plenty of people do. Just remember to use a safe word. Something you won’t actually blurt out during sex, you know? Like ‘caramelised onions’! That sort of thing.” 

“Oh my god,” Harry moans, as passerbys shoot them scandalised looks, “please, for the love of Merlin, stop talking about it!” 

Draco won’t. Harry’s face gets redder and redder until, finally, they reach the pet shop. 

It’s a large, airy store, and the tinkle of the bell when they push open the door is completely drowned by a wave of screeching, yeowling, and hooting. A harassed looking clerk comes up to them, wearing oven mitts and clutching a large, struggling cat who clearly does not want to be held. He directs them down an aisle when Harry explains about the collar, the dragon standing regally on Draco’s shoulder the whole time. Its wings are extended to the fullest as it eyes the rest of the animals in the store disdainfully, turning its head to glare as they go past, but none of the animals take any notice of it.

They end up standing in front of a long row of collars in various shapes and fabrics and colours, and Draco immediately zeros in on a tasteful green leather collar trimmed in shimmering silver, which Harry vetoes on the spot. 

“That’s the Slytherin house colours,” Harry says flatly, and refuses to listen to any arguments about how the green beautifully complements the Horntail’s black scales. 

“Ugh, fine,” Draco says, crossing his arms and sulking, and obstinately refuses to help any further.

“This?” Harry says doubtfully, picking up one in a fire-engine red. 

Draco snatches it out of his hand immediately with a sneer and a, “absolutely not, that’s far too bright and it hurts my eyes. Do you _want_ your dragon to be mistaken for one of the Weasley’s?” He scans the rows of collars, and points out one in gold just for the sheer irony. 

To his surprise, Harry actually goes along with it. And because dragons don’t understand irony, when they present the Horntail the collar, the dragon actually paws at it in a pleased sort of manner, and eagerly stretches out its neck for Harry to put it on. It makes a rumbling noise once the collar shrinks to the right size and settles around its neck, which Draco realises after a moment is the dragon version of a cat’s purr.

“Figures,” Draco says, looking fondly down at the dragon, who is tossing its head in a manner that is very obviously designed to draw attention to the golden collar shining around its neck. A dragon after his own heart, _indeed_.

The shopkeeper has an amused smile on his face as he rings them up and instructs Harry on how to summon it when it wants it: “Just think of it and it’ll come,” the shopkeeper says. He hesitates, then adds a little bit too quickly, “or at least it should anyway. Dragons have a mind of their own, you know, and they’re not easily tamed. Not even miniature ones like these.”

“Oh, we’re perfectly aware of that,” Draco says, exchanging a knowing look with Harry.

“Right,” Harry says, once they’re standing outside the shop. “Where shall we head to next?”

“Next?” Draco says, slightly surprised. He hadn’t thought of anything beyond completing their errand, and now that that’s settled, he realises that they don’t have a reason to hang around each other anymore, but Harry’s face is bright and open and the dragon’s nuzzling Draco’s cheek, and Draco can feel himself being pulled into their orbit. 

The streets of Hogsmead are full of chattering students who shoot them curious looks as they pass by, but Harry’s full attention is on him, and Draco feels his cheeks grow warm. The smell of cinnamon wafts through the air, rich and intoxicating; and the bright sunlight glints off the shop windows, soaking the streets before them in a soft glow. The afternoon stretches before them, endless and inviting; a million possibilities sparking at their fingertips. 

Draco looks at Harry, at the cheerful smile on his face, and says in a low, pleased voice, “anywhere you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked this, feel free to [come say hi over on tumblr](https://tasteofshapes.tumblr.com), or reblog the [tumblr fic link](https://tasteofshapes.tumblr.com/post/617177661633183744/happy-may-the-fourth-heres-my-fic-for)!

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